Keep Calm and Kill Your Wife

by Lucky Stevens

  I exhaled loudly, stopping long enough for my body to collapse within itself. I let my head drop, totally aware of the fact that my foot was firmly on the brake. And when I finally looked up, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing was real. It was Trevor.

  He was playing, by himself, about ten yards from my car. My immediate reaction was visceral, angry. But my brain took over and I decided to be calm, take it in, and try not to overreact.

  I looked around. He was definitely alone. Completely unsupervised. Three and a half years old. Three and a half years old! my brain screamed. My son. Filthy and playing in garbage, in nothing more than a diaper and a thin white t-shirt. Staying calm suddenly seemed a lot harder.

  But for his sake, I did stay calm. The last thing I wanted to do was freak him out. I prayed there was some kind of misunderstanding, but certainly couldn’t fathom what it could be.

  After I parked the car, I approached my son.

  “Trev—” I said softly, this single word catching as my throat closed. It caught me off guard. It felt so surreal. Literally not being able to speak.

  He immediately broke from his trance, and from the little song he was singing. His mouth opened wide and curled into a broad smile.

  “Daddy!” he yelled. He scrambled to his feet, and we ran toward each other. I held him so tightly, I was almost scared I’d hurt him. I didn’t want to let go. I was still afraid I wouldn’t be able to talk yet, as puddles collected on my lower eyelids.

  I was strangely aware of my gathering tears and dreaded that inevitable first blink that would squeeze them out and send them rolling down my cheeks.

  “Why you’re crying, Daddy?”

  I laughed, as I thought about how his question was filled with such an unaware innocence. And how his words made me want to cry even harder.

  “I’m just so happy to see you, Trevor.” My voice shivered and cracked, but I had gotten the words out.

  As I climbed the stairs to Lulu’s apartment, Trevor’s grip around my neck seemed to tighten. He began to shake, and a feeling of anxiousness washed over me. I’d have to think of something else; this wasn’t the time to confront her. I turned to go back down.

  “I want my teddy bear, Daddy.”

  “Where is it?” I said. I tried to sound calm.

  “In Mommy’s house.”

  I sighed. “We’re gonna have to get it later, Trevor. I’m sorry.”

  He began to cry softly as I walked down the stairs. By the time I had reached the last step, his shaking had almost stopped. His grip around my neck was looser. Leaving was a good idea, and I headed toward my car.

  “Reggie.”

  The voice was unfamiliar.

  I turned around and saw a woman in her late sixties, early seventies. She had a face that looked like she’d worked hard all her life and really had nothing to show for it. But still, there was a sweetness to it. She wore a flower print dress that for some reason caught my eye during those first few seconds when you sum someone up.

  “Yes?” I said. Despite her, uh, harmlessness, I felt on guard. I guess it was the circumstances.

  “Do you remember me?” she asked.

  The See’s Candy lady flashed in my mind. My anxiety intensified. I really didn’t want to take any walks down memory lane. Not now.

  “We weren’t in the same kindergarten together, were we?” I don’t know why I said it, but I did. I hoped it didn’t sound snotty or sarcastic.

  Fortunately, she laughed.

  “I’m Mrs. Haynes.”

  “Oh, oh yeah, I remember you. You used to babysit me every once in a while.”

  “Right, right. And you know I’m still friends with your grandma.”

  I smiled. “Mrs. Haynes, could you do me a favor?” Lulu’s apartment door was halfway open. I opened it the rest of way with my purposely careless knock. I expected it to be messy, but the place was a pigsty. A lot worse than I thought it would be. But then again, Lulu could always clean up pretty good, I mean well, when she wanted to. Like if she had known I was coming, for example, you wouldn’t have recognized the place. It was part of what worried me about facing her in court, the next day. Unlike that moment, the next day, she wouldn’t be surprised. With a little advanced warning, she really knows how to put on a show.

  Her head, which was resting soundly on the couch, seemed to percolate upward as her glassy eyes scanned for familiarity. She wore a t-shirt whose hem—if that’s what it’s called—landed just below her navel. Beneath that was a pair of white cotton panties, and nothing else. I hate to admit it, but she still turned me on.

  “Reggie?”

  I completely ignored my unwilling and sick attraction to her, and with Trevor safely in Mrs. Haynes’ care, I let loose.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I said. My mouth barely opened, due to the fact that I couldn’t seem to stop clenching my teeth.

  “What? Whuz with you?” she slurred as she casually stumbled down the hall. I followed. I could smell the alcohol on her breath.

  When she reached the end of the hall, she stepped through the door, pulled down her panties, and backed her way onto the toilet. Over the gushing sound of Niagara Falls, I continued.

  “Do you know that I just found Trevor outside by himself playing in a pile of filth right by the street?”

  “Who?” she slurred.

  “Trevor! Our son!”

  She laughed. “I know, I know who yer talkin’ about. I’m just kidding…God.”

  I could feel the sweat puddling on the back of my neck. I wanted to kill her. I won’t lie, I wanted to wrap my hands around her throat and just squeeze the demented life out of her.

  Instead, I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. By now, Lulu had finished in the bathroom. Quite the environmentalist, too. I guess flushing the toilet and washing your hands wastes a little too much water.

  “All right. I’m taking Trevor and I’ll see you in court tomorrow,” I said.

  “Whatya’ mean you’re taking him? I got legal cus’ody.”

  I took out my phone and began taking pictures of her apartment. “Not after tomorrow you won’t.”

  “Oh fuck you. Those pictures don’t mean shit,” she said. She seemed to be sobering up. “Besides, you got two strikes on you. You’re not getting no cus’ody.”

  I kept on taking pictures—of the dirty dishes, the clothes all over the floor, the trash, the half-eaten food, the alcohol bottles, and even the primarily empty refrigerator— as if I hadn’t heard her. But I had heard her, and she was right.

  I do have two strikes. And for those of you who don’t know, in California, after your third strike, or y’know, felony, in other words, you go to jail for life. Ironically, as a father who wants a safer world for his son, I think it’s a pretty good law, but uh, anyway, here we are.

  I’m not proud of my crimes, and to be honest, like all ex-cons, I should have more than two strikes. After all, you only get those strikes when you’re caught.

  Not that it’s an excuse, but most of what I did, I did when I was young—not to mention stupid. Stealing cars, mainly. That’s when I first got pinched, as an adult that is. My juvenile record had been expunged and I decided to celebrate by stealing a cop’s car. Only I didn’t know it was a cop’s car. The judge didn’t seem to care. I got a year in prison for that one. I was a regular Einstein all right.

  I guess I didn’t get the message, because after I got out, I continued stealing cars, before and during my army years. I never got caught again for it though, so I guess I did learn something.

  The last thing I got in trouble for, was for something completely different. It also has a bit of irony to it. It was actually the only violent offense I ever committed. Up until then, I had never even seen any of my victims. Not that this guy was exactly a victim.

  What happened was, one night me and Lulu—I mean Lulu and I—were in a bar having a few beers when something happened, I don’t remember what, but anyway, this guy starts saying he’s
going to kill Lulu. At first I thought he was kidding, but he starts getting angrier and angrier, and I really looked at him and realized he was serious. Next thing I know he pulls out a knife and lunges with it, at Lulu. Then he and I started really brawling. He got in a couple good shots, but it ended when I broke his jaw. They never found the knife, and I guess he must have looked worse than I did, because he got three months and I got eight. Strike two.

  What made it ironic was that I got my second strike saving Lulu’s life so that five years later she could use that second strike against me to try to get custody of our son who wouldn’t even be here today if I hadn’t saved her life.

  Anyway, when she mentioned the two strikes, I guess my face gave me away, and like any successful leech, Lulu seemed to smell blood.

  “You know if you’d just give me the child support— the hundred thou—this would all be over,” she said, as if I could just write her a check.

  “Where the hell am I going to get a hundred thousand dollars?”

  She shrugged. “That’s your problem. Do watcha’ gotta do.”

  “As always Lulu, it’s been a little slice of heaven.” I turned toward the door.

  “See you in court,” she said.

  When I reached the door, I almost collided with this wiry-looking guy with no front teeth who was on his way in. Without making eye contact, he swerved around me and planted himself inside the apartment.

  “Hey, Lulu,” he said. He tried to sound sexy but failed.

  “Hey, Chucky,” she said. “Wait in the bedroom, baby.”

  I was only a few feet out the door when she called my name. I turned around.

  She was holding up two fingers. “Two strikes,” she said, smiling. “Keep your eye on the ball.”

  I could feel my nostrils flare as I turned and walked directly toward her. She looked a little surprised, then stuck her chest out defiantly.

  “Go ahead, hit me. With a black eye in court tomorrow, your case would look even worse than it does now.”

  With the back of my hand, I nudged her to the side as I re-entered her apartment.

  “If I was going to hit you, it’d be in the stomach, where it wouldn’t leave a mark.”

  Then I began to poke around the apartment.

  “Well, get out of here already. I got company. What’re you doing?”

  I reached down behind the television and grabbed a little beige teddy bear.

  “Got it,” I said, as I walked past her, and out the door.

  “Hey, Reggie!” she called after me. “When I’m done in here, Trevor better be out there or there’s gonna be trouble, asshole.”

  As soon as Trevor was securely fastened in the back seat of my car, we began to roll, and I really began to think. Every few moments, I’d glance up into the rearview mirror just to look at him. He was sitting quietly, holding his teddy bear in one hand and a book in the other. What a great kid. Maybe I was asking for trouble. I mean, he was technically in her custody, and I was taking off with him, with my hearing the next day. And here I am trying to be a better person. I mean, I didn’t feel guilty, but I knew it wouldn’t look good in court. But I guess the bottom line was, I just knew I had to get Trevor out of that dangerous situation.

  I decided to call my grandma and then my lawyer— in that order. My grandma is the greatest woman I’ve ever known, flat out. To me, no one is smarter or tougher. I was lucky enough to be raised by her.

  Now I know some of you out there are probably thinking that she didn’t do a very good job with me from what I’ve told you so far. And I can understand people thinking that, but I’ll tell you, anything bad I’ve done in my life has been my fault, a hundred percent. I take full responsibility. My grandma did everything right as far as I’m concerned. Some people, no matter what, are just too stupid to listen. That was me. “Just because the milk comes out of the cow spoiled, doesn’t mean it’s the farmer’s fault—or the cow’s.” That was one of her little sayings. One of hundreds, I’m guessing, and it seems to be appropriate here. “You should write a book,” I used to always tell her.

  Another thing I always admired about my grandma was her toughness. She was raised in the South, and her father insisted she always carry a gun. When she was in her late teens, she shot and killed a man who tried to rape her sister. She was finally acquitted in an unnecessarily long and traumatic trial. “What does a mother lioness protecting her cubs know about manmade laws? And what does she care? It’s instinct, and I’d do it all again, even if they had strung me up for it.” That’s how she always used to end that story.

  “Now Grams, no matter what happens, you know nothing about me taking Tr—I mean, uh, my progeny. As far as you’re concerned, it was my weekend. You’re not getting in trouble over this,” I told my grandma over the phone as I drove.

  “Baby,” she said, “we really gotta talk.”

  “I know. We will. I already have a few ideas. But for now, listen, please. She knows where both of us live. So, I’ll meet you at the Van Nuys Glen Motel on Van Nuys and Chandler. Now when you get there—hold on.” It was my call waiting. Mr. Gonzalez. “Grams, I gotta take this. I’ll see you soon.” I clicked over.

  “Yes, Mr. Gonzalez.” I listened to him talk and, under the circumstances, knew I didn’t have a choice. “Yeah, I got it. San Fernando Bank and Trust. I’ll be there.”

  Lucky Stevens’ skill as a writer extends far beyond the text of this novel. He also wrote the dedication, the acknowledgments page and the very words you are reading right now at this exact second. Keep Calm and Kill Your Wife is his second, and some say greatest, novel to date.